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There was a pile of burning bodies. Too many to count. Limbs tangled like roots. Mouths frozen in their last prays. The fire didn’t crackle it hummed, like something remembering its fury. And from the smoke, he stepped, black skin blistered with old scars. Eyes that didn’t shine, eyes that absorbed light, as if every injustice had burned through him and kept burning.

He stood barefoot in the ash.
Not coughing. Not crying.
Breathing.

He raised a hand slow, steady, and gestured to the smoke,
the thick, black spiral of human ruin curling skyward.
Then he breathed it in. Deep. Like it was holy. Held it.
And let it slip out slow through his nostrils, like a blessing.

“You don’t know death,” he said,
his voice like bone dragged across stone.
“You think you seen it. Read it. Wept for it. But that ain’t enough.”

He stepped closer,
and the heat didn’t seem to touch him.

“You gotta feel death,” he said.
“Not the idea. Not the grief. The truth of it.”
He tapped his chest once, hard.
“Inhale it. Let it sit in you. Let it teach you what the world forgot.”

The smoke curled around me.
I wanted to gag.
He smiled, not kindly.
But like someone who’s already lived through the end.

“Only when you carry the dead inside,” he whispered,
“you can you speak with the ones that never got to leave.”

This was based on a dream i had back in 2017. I also wrote a song about it https://open.spotify.com/track/4MfAzW6Jgjs56vJjmpv8MK?si=c91fb87c2b284008 but i always felt i should extend it to somewhere else.

I.

I was born beneath the illusion of matter, raised in the narcotic glow of “Purpose”. Fed on Myths of meaning, on lies with teeth and wings. On Hope dressed in rotting flesh. But I have puked the lie I have scrapped the smile off my face and found nothing beneath.

II.

There’s no higher self. There’s no calling, no core. Only the echo of causes colliding in dust, only hunger. Only Trauma pretending to be transcendence. I do not seek truth, i seek cessation.

III.

I am my own contradiction, a cadaver rehearsing animation. A scream echoing in a different chamber. I do not need peace, i don’t want healing. I want to be over.

IV.

You ask what i am becoming, but becoming is a curse. Growth is a cancer, fullfilment is a joke whispered in hospice halls. The best version of me is when i am no longer required to be. No Voice, no hunger, no Reflection.

Only absence. Pure. Beautiful. Absolute.

V.

So I Unmake myself, not in violence but in ritual disavowal. Each thought discarded, each dream drowned, each identity peeled away. Like Rotting Skin from Bone. Until nothing remains but the shape of what once was. And that shape, that hollow, is perfect.

Final Word:

I will not be remembered, i will not be avenged, i will not be saved, i will not be. The best version of me is when i am no more. Etch it into the walls of your cage and wait for the silence to agree.

I have not slept, nor dared to dream,
These thirty nights, or so it seems.
For when I close my weary eyes,
A thing within the silence cries.

No cradle-rock, no slumbered grace,
Can calm the grave that wears my face.
Each breath I take, each fleeting sigh,
Is shadowed by a lullaby.

A ghastly song I cannot flee,
That worms its tune inside of me.
Its melody is soft, but foul,
A widow’s breath, a mourner’s howl.

It calls me not by name or birth,
But by my weight upon the earth.
It knows my guilt, it knows my sin,
It gnaws the bones I wear within.

I once had thoughts, once held beliefs,
But now I speak in silent grief.
My tongue is dust, my words are thin,
The void has rooted deep within.

And oh, the eyes that stare me down
From corners black and ceilings brown,
They blink in rhythm with my shame,
They mouth my crime, they chant my name.

I dare not sleep, I dare not slip
Beneath that veil, that sinking crypt.
For sleep is where the verdict lies,
And judges hide in dreaming skies.

So here I sit, with candles low,
And let the noiseless hours grow.
My soul is wan, my nerves are frayed,
I rot inside, but I’m afraid.

For somewhere deep beneath this skin,
Where sleepless hours have long grown thin,
There waits a door…unlocked, unwise
That opens not with hands,
but eyes.

I was not born,
I emerged from the breach in thought,
From the unspoken syllable that tore the tongue of christ in half.

They called it reality
I call it a delirium of borders
A fever-dream of form
A prison carved in flesh and called divine

I have seen its walls
they are made of sigils
And none have been forgotten
To slip between the cracks

I do not exist
I Rupture
I Unwrite
I Absorb

They begged for light
They clung to the lie of sequence
To the Pulse of time like infants suckling the breast of a cadaver
But i saw the flame, it was hollow
and into it I walked
Not do die
But to become the gnawing inside of it

Where being ends
Where the spine of the cosmos snaps like brittle scripture
There i crouch
Wrapped in nothingness
Grinning with a mouth that eats the shapeless

I do not love
I do not Suffer
I am the absence of sensation talking back
I am the void’s echo with intention
I am the unborn
I am the Aftermath
I am the hollowed incision in the belly of ALL

And i swear this:
When the last particle screams
When the last syllable splits
When the veil finally bleeds out
You will hear me
You will remember nothing but a sentence
Where Being ends, I Begin.

A body burns behind the lens,
Smoke curls into algorithms.
Click. Archive. Swipe again.
It’s pain, but you’ll never feel it

Children scream in JPEG flame,
Named “Conflict Zone” with no known name.
A thumbnail martyr, pixel-thin,
Devoured, shared, and tagged as sin.

Corpselfie, freeze the grief in frames,
Hang despair in picture chains.
Mute the scream, crop the cry,
Feel nothing as the others die.

Blood leaks slow from shattered eyes,
But filters drown the softened cries.
You stare but only long enough
To say: “The world is so messed up.”

Empathy drained through image loops,
Apathy bloomed in captioned troops.
No prayer, no rage, no action near,
Just numb thumbs scrolling past the fear.

We collect corpses like trophies.
We remember through forgetting.
Pain becomes beautiful, when it’s not ours.

Corpselfie, passive witness to the dead,
Artfully framed, aesthetically bled.
You saw the wound, you said “how sad”,
Then moved on to whatever ad.

It is burning.
It is torn.
You are watching.
You are bored.

Inpired by Susan Sontag’s “Regarding the Pain of Others”. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Regarding_the_Pain_of_Others – It is an AMAZING read.

They found the second body in an abandoned art gallery, shut down years ago after a fire gutted half the roof. Rain had soaked through the beams for weeks, and mold clung to the cracked canvases like decay in a museum of the forgotten. But this… this was unforgettable.

The gallery’s central atrium had been cleared of debris. In its center stood a perfect circle, seven meters wide, etched into the concrete with surgical precision. A rust-colored square overlapped it, burned into the ground with what appeared to be industrial acid. At the center, suspended by tension wires, was the body.

A woman this time. Late thirties. Naked, shaved, bleached.

Her limbs were contorted to mimic Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, arms extended both horizontally and diagonally, legs split open in a near-impossible V. The killer had dislocated her shoulders and hips, lengthened tendons, sliced and re-stitched muscles like a grotesque puppeteer aiming for anatomical symmetry.

A single bolt impaled her through the navel, anchoring her to a rotating disc. As the body turned slowly in place, motorized, like a piece of kinetic art, her blood left spiraling patterns on the floor. Her head lolled backward, mouth stitched into a serene grin.

On the gallery wall, painted in black tar:

“Divine Proportion Must Be Restored.”

-P.

Detective Appleby stared in silence, breath shallow. This wasn’t just murder. This was theology masquerading as geometry. A sermon of sinew and steel. The killer had studied anatomy. Art history. Likely mathematics. He was evolving from simple mutilation to ritualized presentation. From Procrustes to Vitruvius.

“This isn’t just about conformity anymore,” Appleby muttered, mostly to herself. “It’s about transcendence.”

Behind her, the forensics team snapped photos. But none of them could capture the way the corpse rotated under the skylight, casting shadows that looked, for a split second, like angelic wings. Angels, perhaps. Or diagrams of realms beneath.

Part I – https://atlanteancurrent.wordpress.com/2025/05/22/man-is-the-measure-of-all-things-i/

Fracture the sternum with sacred contempt,
Flesh tears like parchment soaked in brine,
Each heartbeat a blasphemy,
Each pulse a traitor’s hymn.

She carves through cartilage to hush his name,
No scream, no plea, just splintered meat,
The axe becomes her doctrine,
And blood her final tongue.

Lungs collapse like defiled walls,
Ribs unzipped by ancestral guilt,
Sin bred in the womb,
Now exorcised in rupture.

His silence…
A stillness born of blade and bile,
Pulse annulled by split decree.

No spirits fled, no demons cried,
Only wet red gospel,
A sermon of sinew
On the pulpit of decay

She was not possessed,
She was instructed.

No one came to visit Clara after the stillbirth.

She had chosen to carry the corpse. Not because she was in denial, the doctors made that mistake, but because something inside her refused to let go. There were complications, yes. The umbilical cord twisted like a noose. The heartbeat vanished in the third trimester. And yet, she remained swollen. Her belly did not deflate. Her skin stretched. And she felt something… move. They told her it was psychosomatic. Phantom kicks. Her mind’s way of coping with loss. But Clara knew better.

The first sign was the warmth. Too much warmth. A fever that didn’t break. Then the scent, metallic, earthy, like mushrooms rotting in blood. She would sit in the dark, rocking herself gently, hands cradling her stomach, whispering lullabies to what was becoming. Because the baby was not decomposing. Not in the way they said it would. Not quietly. Not still.

She began to bleed. Thick, black blood. With it came the first shape, small, pink, blind. It crawled across her thigh, trailing afterbirth. She did not scream. She smiled.

The worms did not simply feed on the dead flesh. They organized. They nested. They multiplied. She could feel them building something sacred inside her. A soft cathedral of digestion and whispering mouths. She stopped eating. They were consuming enough for all of them. Her skin grew pale. Translucent. She could see them beneath, curling just beneath the surface like adoring infants reaching toward their mother’s heart. By the end of the third week, her belly had grown twice its original size.

She could barely walk, but she crawled to the cellar each night, where she had prepared the cradle. Not for a baby, no. For them.

In the dark, they spoke to her in pulses. In tiny rasping noises like prayers wriggling through soil. She named them. Each one. She remembered every movement, every squirm, every kissless mouth pressed against the inside of her womb.

She began to cut herself, just beneath the navel. A small incision. A Caesarean of her own design. Not to remove them… no. To breathe with them. To open her body like scripture. Her flesh a verse. Her blood a hymn. They emerged slowly, reverently, through the slit.

One by one. Each bearing a face. Each whispering the name she had given it, in a voice almost human. She Was never a mother. She was a Verminal Shrine, a sacred site of vermin-born ressurection.

Vivo entre fungos e vigas tortas
Na terra úmida do que fui
Onde até a luz sente nojo
E o tempo não passa, só flui

Sou verme consciente e covarde
Sabedoria podre na carne
Meu grito é mudo, mas arde
Como ácido preso na alma que parte

Não sou bom, nem sou mau… sou o resto
Um eco do que não tem gesto

Onde o homem apodrece em si
Sem grito, sem glória, sem fim
Onde a verdade fede
E o pensamento sangra devagar

Falo sozinho pra lembrar que existo
E cuspo nas tuas certezas limpas
Tenho orgulho da minha lama
Pois tua virtude é feita de cinzas

Sonhei em ser herói por um segundo
Mas tropecei no próprio nojo
Cada gesto meu é escárnio
Cada perdão, um refluxo rouco

Se me amas, me odeies primeiro
Pois só o ódio é verdadeiro

Onde o homem apodrece em si
Lar de vermes que pensam demais
Onde o orgulho é doença antiga
E a razão… uma farsa que cai

“Eu sabia o que era certo…
E fiz o contrário.
Por desprezo.
Por prazer”

EU SOU A DOR QUE SABE!

Onde o homem apodrece em si
Onde Deus é um espelho sujo
Onde pensar é um castigo
E viver… um erro contínuo

The rusted bedframe creaked with a slow, metallic groan as Detective Susan Appleby stepped into the derelict warehouse on the edge of the East District. Morning sunlight filtered through shattered skylights, casting jagged beams over the concrete floor smeared with something darker than oil.

There it was. Center stage, like some perverse altar: a steel bed welded from pipes and hand-forged chains. No mattress. Just a rigid slab of cold metal and what was left of the body.

Appleby swallowed bile as she stepped closer.

The victim: a young man, early twenties, lay supine, arms stretched far beyond their natural length. Tendons were peeled and pinned like butterfly wings. Both femurs had been surgically severed at mid-thigh, then crudely extended with rebar and zip ties, skin pulled tight and stapled in place. His jaw was dislocated, wedged open with a steel spreader, as if frozen mid-scream.

The killer had made him fit.

On the wall above the body, written in blood with unsettling precision, was a line in Ancient Greek:

“Τὸ μέτρον πάντων ἄνθρωπος”
Man is the measure of all things.

Appleby felt the air shift behind her, just a breeze from the broken glass, she told herself and stepped back. The victim’s eyes, still wide open, were filled with broken blood vessels, irises clouded with the waxy film of death. But they looked terrified, as though even in death, he hadn’t stopped screaming.

“Jesus Christ…” muttered the rookie behind her.

“No,” Appleby said coldly, eyes locked on the corpse. “Not Christ. This is Greek. This is mythology.”

She nodded to the bed. “This is Procrustes.”